


The Plague

by azalera



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Coping with Covid-19, Feel-good, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Ninjas Against Pandemics, No Character Death, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:54:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25177984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azalera/pseuds/azalera
Summary: One year after the Hashirama Senju and Madara Uchiha create Konohagakure, a pandemic sweeps through the village. The virus has no cure; No Medical Ninjutsu can stop it. Hashirama catches it first. Madara catches it later. Purely written to cope with Covid-19, with the added bonus of some nice hurt/comfort, a smidge of angst, and a happy hashimada ending.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 1
Kudos: 29





	The Plague

A deep sickness plagued Konohagakure a year after its foundation, when the outermost parts of the village were half-built and the laws were even less finished. Hashirama coughed for days, the kind of cough that was dry and splintered and made the ache in your lungs seep into your bones. No medical ninjutsu could fix it. Hashirama struggled to breathe, some nights, and he shut his eyes and said—mouthed, really—that at least the village had a form and name and people, and it was enough, it would be enough, _it had to be enough_ , if he never again woke up. 

He thought perhaps Tobirama clutched his hand at the darkest parts of his sickness, but the memory of anything but the pain was dull, and he couldn’t quite be sure. 

And then, ten days after Hashirama recovered, the council was another man short. 

Hashirama considered not knocking on Madara’s door at sunrise when he should be leading the council discussion, he truly did consider it. But then he immediately decided that he would most definitely check in, because Madara was not late a single day in his life...and Tobirama would be perfectly capable of leading the discussion, and perhaps the council shouldn’t be cozying up together so soon after dozens of strong shinobi were taken by an invisible, incurable virus. 

And then when he received no response to the knock at Madara’s door, he considered that perhaps Madara was not home, and he could turn around and check again later. Of course, Hashirama had no legal way to enter—Madara did _not_ give out keys to anyone, not even him—and perhaps turning around was the good and just thing to do. 

Instead, Hashirama promptly snuck around the back, to the window that was always half open. 

It took a special determination for a man over six feet tall, with thick thighs and wide shoulders, to crawl through this particular window, but Hashirama did so with impeccable grace. His arms already knew the exact way to stretch and twist. His feet knew the spot to land. 

“Madara, are you there?” he called out, which would have normally been enough words (more than one was usually the threshold) to get him kicked out. 

Silence. 

A bit of a grunt. 

Hashirama followed the familiar sound to...the bathroom? 

The door was cracked open, but through it Hashirama could see very little. He pressed a gentle palm against the wood and peered in. Yellow light. The porcelain bath. The white tile. And...a mess of red-black hair, spilling out against the wall. 

“Madara!” he explained, and gave the door a hurried push. 

“Mm...ow, go away,” was the weak—weak??—voice that replied, along with the thump of the door against a knee. 

Madara was haphazardly propped in the corner of the bathroom in sweat-soaked clothes, head bowed and clutching his knee. 

Hashirama knelt on the floor across from him, pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. 

“You’re sick...” 

“Obviously.” he muttered. “Get away.” 

“I can take you to the medical center--” 

“You know that’s useless. I’ve got it. The Plague. Now go away and let me fight it off.” 

Hashirama expected the usual push or glare that signaled Madara was done with him for now, but Madara gave him an empty stare. 

“I’ll bring you to bed. Get you some water, and...” 

“I’ll _bring_ myself to bed.” Madara pushed up off the ground. Or, better said, bent his legs and lifted and then fell back down and angrily pushed harder until he gets himself halfway to his feet. 

Hashirama wrapped an arm around his waist and gave an extra, silent push, and Madara stared elsewhere and said nothing. He managed to stand up. 

“If you get...sick again. It’s your damn fault.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Hashirama replied. He sounded convincing enough, at least, to end the conversation there. 

Madara pushed Hashirama’s hands away at last, but though the push was weak and firm, it was also an awkwardly sort of gentle, and Hashirama was all the more motivated to fetch some water as Madara damn near s _tumbled_ to his futon. 

He returned to Madara’s bedside with a pitcher of water and a cup, as well as a cool, damp towel. He sat cross-legged and ses the towel down. He handed Madara the cup. 

Madara frowned and ignored the cup. 

“Did you at least bring me some work to do?” 

“I was a little preoccupied with concern for my best friend. He didn’t show up to work today, you know?” 

“Hn.” 

They stay like that for a while, quiet, and Madara’s eyes fell half-shut. 

Madara coughed. 

Hashirama extended a hand, placed his palm on Madara’s chest. Only one of Madara’s eyes bothered to fully open. Then, a moment later, Hashirama began to massage the length from his neck to his belly. Madara stiffened. 

But slowly, he relaxed. 

“Hashirama,” he murmured at some point. Hashirama slowed his massaging and then, after a quick pause, clutched Madara’s hand. 

“I’m here,” Hashirama replied. Madara’s head rolled to the left, the curls of his hair bouncing around lazily. 

“Yeah,” Madara sighed, cheeks flushed and sweaty. 

“We didn’t make it this far to die from a cold,” Hashirama joked. 

“Obviously.” 

Hashirama put the towel on Madara’s hot forehead. 

“I won’t let you—” 

“Shut up,” Madara wheezed. 

“But I—” 

“ _Fucking._ Senju.” 

Hashirama grinned, about to say something, but Madara coughed again and the joke was forgotten. 

Madara slept for most of that first day. At night, Hashirama slept on the floor beside the futon, though the sleep was brief and most of the night was Hashirama rubbing healing chakra along Madara’s shoulders and chest and spine. The second and third days, Madara insisted Hashirama leave to do his job, and he did. 

He returned that night with a stuffed bag of medical supplies, supplements, and clothes. 

“No one is allowed to leave their homes unless cleared by me. To try and slow the spread...” 

“Hn.” 

“Of course, I cleared myself to come here.” 

“Hnnnn.” 

"I even filled out the paperwork for myself. It was very official.” 

“Mmhm.” 

Hashirama unpacked his bag. He changed the soaked towel on Madara’s forehead to a fresh, cool one. He proceeded to examine Madara’s lungs, his pulse, his breathing. 

“Zuzu?” 

Hashirama’s eyes snapped back up at Madara’s face. 

“Madara?” 

“Mmm.” 

Hashirama watched a moment later, and then he pulls his gaze away and is particularly silent as he continues the examination. 

\-- 

Hashirama opened his eyes. They ached. The moon was particularly bright, and Hashirama sat up to rub at his stiff neck. He turned to Madara’s futon, ready to give more of his chakra, whatever it took. 

The futon was empty. 

Hashirama immediately stiffened and looked around, dazed. Madara stood by the open window, a hand on the wooden frame to steady himself. 

“You’re not resting?” Hashirama asked. Madara had been in and out of a deep sleep for days, and only a few hours ago had he woken up. 

“Needed some fresh air,” he said simply. But there were more words unsaid, hanging awkwardly in the air. 

“Okay,” Hashirama said. Madara glanced at him and shifted, suddenly all too uncomfortable with his back being so exposed. Hashirama nodded. Madara looked anywhere else. 

“I...” Madara started to say, but then shook his head. 

“Thank you,” Hashirama said, filling up all that awkward air with an unbearable warmth. “Thank you for allowing me to take care of you.” 

“I’m fine,” Madara replied, making a gesture. “You can go home." 

"Yeah.” It’s familiar. Those words are usually said under sticky sheets, the two of them silently tangled up in one another. Hashirama’s body, as dazed as he is, eyes swollen and chakra aching, knew to get up and get dressed and slip out the window. 

But he stopped his motion with a breath, one foot already in a sandal, when Madara’s next words register. 

“...In the morning?” 

Madara finally met Hashirama’s gaze. Hashirama blinked, and then the tiniest smile grew on his face. 

Hashirama set the sandals aside and stepped closer—not behind Madara, but next to him. 

“In the morning,” Hashirama agreed. 


End file.
